ack when I was 12, my best friend Shane and I spent most of our summer weekends camping in
thick woods behind my family's farm house. We'd pitch our tent next to
fishing pond and would spend
weekend in
great outdoors.While we imagined we were living off
fat of
land, we were really living off
larder of my father: Once or twice a day we'd go to
house, a mere quarter mile away, share a meal with my family, and stock up on chips, snacks and thermosfuls of sweet iced-tea. On Sunday mornings we would breakfast at
house for Sunday was
day that my father ventured into
kitchen to make a batch of his famous (at least among
Allen clan) biscuits-and-sausage-gravy.
It was one of these Sunday mornings that
great bear hunting incident took place.
We woke early one morning and set upon
task of fishing. If we were lucky we could catch a few fish before going on up to
house for breakfast. It was a peaceful day and we were enjoying
silence until we were disturbed by
clamor of something moving in
woods. Quiet at first but increasingly louder,
raucous noise quickly proved to be nothing than my younger sister, all of seven, traipsing loudly down
trail from
house.
"Keep it down, will you, we're fishing!" I yelled.
"Fine," she said, sticking her tongue out at
two of us. "Then I won't tell you that Dad said breakfast is ready." And she turned and tromped back up
trail louder than before.
As soon as she was gone, Shane and I eagerly started winding our reels in. Both our stomach's were growling at
thought of
meal to come. Just as we we're setting our poles next to
tent, we heard a scream that was obviously Michelle. Shane and I ran down
path, towards
noise, going just a short distance before seeing my sister who was tearing back down
path towards us.